


The Jungle

by suitesamba



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Anonymous Sex, Infidelity, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-30
Updated: 2013-11-30
Packaged: 2018-01-03 01:41:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,280
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1064188
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/suitesamba/pseuds/suitesamba
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When it becomes too much, this perfect life, he escapes to the Jungle.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Jungle

**Author's Note:**

> My best friend came out to me when he was 47. While I wasn't surprised that he was gay, I was definitely surprised that this mild-mannered man had frequented a place like the one described in this fic.
> 
> **Disclaimer:** This is a work of fiction. The characters and their worlds belong to their original writers and no copyright infringement or offense is intended. No money was made from this story.
> 
> Written for "Blow Job Friday" Challenge on the journals.

The Jungle.

It wasn’t a place where _wizards_ came. Not just wizards, anyway. It was a bar, a club, not in the heart of London but out a bit. A destination. You didn’t stumble upon it by accident. You had to know where you were going, and go there purposefully. It offered rooms – for the night or for the hour – and it felt _dirty_ even though it wasn’t dirty in the least. Seedy, more like, like everyone who was there knew he shouldn’t be, or certainly wouldn’t share his whereabouts with anyone he knew in the polite real world. The music was loud, the dance floor huge, the bar accessible from four sides. You could order food when you were hungry, and carry your drink outside to the expansive patio out back, to the maze of paths that criss-crossed the wide grounds through a wood down to the lake. Benches dotted the bath, private alcoves, small clearings in the trees, as cozy and warm or as shadowed and sinister as you pleased. It was a retreat for men, for men who liked men, many of them leading lives like Harry’s. Lives in London with wives. With children. Men who’d learned too late, been in denial too long.

He came here only when the need grew too large to contain. A fix. A night of dancing. Of wondering the dark paths on a starlit night. An anonymous hand job with his back against a tree. A blow job, on his knees at a stranger’s feet, hand cupping the heavy, achingly familiar weight of warm bollocks, the smell he kept with him in his London home, in his sun-sweet sheets, with his generous, beautiful, willing wife.

Months had passed, seven, maybe eight, and he found himself looking at men on the street, nearly trembling with the heady aroma and accidental press of bodies in a crowded elevator. Hiding was painful. Christmas at the Burrow with Charlie and his new boyfriend, a pick-up game of Quidditch in the spring with the other Aurors, a Muggle movie with Ginny and Ron and Hermione about a man like him, with a secret, with two lives, a man who had everything he should have ever wanted in one, and everything else in the other.

He needed a drink or two to loosen up, to muster his Gryffindor courage in this tempting Garden of Eden, but he never drank so much that he acted stupidly, or went too far. A drink at the bar, an hour on the dance floor with no one special, another drink at the bar, a third to carry with him to the patio. Drinking it at the railing as shadows moved about the open paths toward the wood. An empty glass on the railing as he mustered his courage, packed away his pride. Hands in his pockets as he slipped into the woods, feet almost silent on the smooth earth beneath them.

Quiet grunts, moans, strangled oaths were native sounds here, as familiar and as commonplace as the croak of tree frogs, of wind-rustled leaves. 

A dark figure before him, the smell of cigarette smoke, the orange tip as the man inhaled, the dying light as he dropped the butt to the ground, the scrape of dirt as he stepped on it. 

The man straightened, stepped away from the tree, half a step. A step.

Harry slowed, swallowed, gut tightening, blood rushing, unbidden, to his groin. The first one was always the best. Always. No matter if he were on his knees with a cock in his mouth, or frotting against a stranger, or pressing his back into a tree with his trousers around his ankles. He didn’t care who it was – it was always someone like him, after all, someone who needed this, who didn’t know how to find it in his day-to-day life, or was afraid to, or embarrassed, or too unsure of himself.

Harry stepped off the path into a benchless alcove, a bare private room. He knew there’d be no words, nothing spoken to sanctify the act. As passive as the encounter was, the other man had made the first move, had taken that first step, so Harry waited. Hands at his side now, thighs quivering at the effort of staying upright.

He was pressed against a tall tree, bark worn smooth, and a practiced hand had belt and trousers undone and pushed down before he could give any real thought to what was to come. He groaned out his impossibly good luck as the man dropped to his knees before him. A blow job, then. Fuck he needed this. No matter that a woman could perform this act – that Ginny did it for him, from time to time. A man understood it. A man knew exactly how to work another man. A man willing to kneel at a stranger’s feet didn’t gag at a cock in his mouth.

The mouth on him now was not gentle and soft. The fingers on his bollocks were sure of themselves. The hand around his arse was strong, long-fingered. He could feel the fingers kneading his flesh, working down to where buttock became thigh and pulling tight. 

The movements were familiar, the dance as old as time, and he breathed slowly, purposefully, trying to control his body’s too-quick reaction, to quell the need, to delay his release. The scent of sex, of man, of cigarette smoke, of…of…

Blearily, eyes finally adjusting to the moonless night, he stared at the shadowy form at his feet, at the dark head buried in his groin, felt the possessive grip of dexterous fingers on his arse.

He breathed in the smell, half earthy, half medicinal, as familiar as the back of his hand.

He could not flee. He would rather stand in the Ministry atrium and declare his love for Voldemort than end this now.

The suction on his cock increased as the man buried his nose in his pubic hair, swallowed around him, eight thousand points of exquisite pressure igniting his prick as one hand circled his bollocks again, cupping them, squeezing just a hair past the point of pleasure while the other hand squeezed his arse and fingernails cut into tender flesh, enough to leave marks, to leave a memory. 

Warm bursts of breath from that nose in his groin as he dug his heels into the ground, locked his knees, lost the battle to _not_ grunt, _not_ moan, not jerk forward into that hard and sweet and bitter and sinful mouth, to _fuck_ it.

_Fuck._

He came with a strangled cry, biting his lip, and the man raised his eyes, looked up as he swallowed. Dark eyes glinting in the night like a wild thing’s, long, hooked nose, lank hair.

Green eyes met black but there was no repulsion behind the recognition. No flight. No fear.

Snape stood.

Brushed off his knees as Harry pulled up pants and trousers, tucked himself away.

A tiny quirk of a smile on Harry’s face.

An answering ghost of a smirk on Snape’s.

“One twenty.”

Harry nodded and Snape spun on the spot and strode away.

Harry stared after him, mouth open slightly in wonder, brain trying to process this impossible coincidence.

How long had Snape known it was him? What were the tell-tales in the near darkness, or had he been out here waiting long enough for his eyes to adjust better than Harry’s had?

When he stepped forward into the path, had he known he’d been about to silently proposition Harry Potter?

Harry composed himself. Counted to fifty.

Hands in his pocket, eyes straight ahead, he made his way to room 120.

_Fin_


End file.
